


One-Way Street

by neverminetohold



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Friendship, Gang Rape, Ghosts, Hallucinations, M/M, Maybe Magic Maybe Mundane, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Sick Character, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-08 03:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7740775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/pseuds/neverminetohold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He dreamed of Green. The thing he searched for and ran from, that he knew he would never find. But she kept on guiding him, through the blood, violence and pain. He only had to follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One-Way Street

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SilverDolphin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverDolphin/gifts).



He fanged it, but the chase was over before it had begun.

He had been distracted, his eardrums scalded by the incessant screams and begging of dead people, head heavy with a fever that tried to reduce his will to cinders. Still, there was no excuse for being taken by surprise.

Raiders already nipping at his heels he had stumbled towards his ride, each part of the Interceptor restored, washed away the last traces of the Citadel with its War Boys, and dragged his body inside, behind the steering wheel. The same one that broke his fingers as the car and the world beyond it spun out of his grasp in an explosion of sand and the agonized groan and screech of bending metal.

The air was instantly thick with guzzoline and sweet copper and the first feeble crackle of sparked flames. They sounded hungry over the ringing that threatened to split his skull. Somewhere, Glory was shouting and raving at him, then her voice faded, replaced by soft weeping.

He lay coughing, hacking up his dust-filled lungs that strained against the cage of his ribs. He stared into the glaring sun in its clear blue sky, amazed by the soft wash of colors, bleeding into each other -- until the darkness swallowed him whole with its gaping maw.

xxx

He knew he was dreaming because he woke surrounded by Green, an endless expanse of it that stretched towards the horizon. Blades of grass tickled his skin where it was exposed; he was lying on his side, head pillowed on something warm that rose and fell in a steady rhythm. The breeze was cool and fragrant with flowers in full bloom.

He could almost name them and the tree that cast its shadow over them, he realized with a thrill of terror that ran down his spine.

Memories were something his instincts told him to fear. They were too worn and soft around the edges, a treasure as threadbare as the clothes on his back, to conjure them carelessly - those that didn't threaten to tear him apart anyway.

The feeling gradually smoothed out, like the pebbles in the creek that murmured to the twitter of birds and humming of bees. Idyllic this. Mhm-mh, yeah, that was the word. He felt his muscles relax under the hand that caressed him, running through his hair, over his shoulder, along his arm; lazy and content on a hot summer day.

He felt safe, which meant this wasn't a dream at all. No, it seemed 'Mad' Max Rockatansky lay finally well and truly dying.

xxx

Of course, that would have been too easy. Even during those dark days when a line was drawn between Before and After, he had not been able to simply roll over. It wasn't in him, survival all he knew, his blessing and curse.

He woke in a place shaded from the glare of the sun, all cobbled together pieces of metal and fabric. He was trussed up, gagged, and stark naked. There was no give, the rope dug into his skin, his feet and hands already going numb, except for the angry pulsing of his fingers.

He had had to work with worse and made do, so he started to look around, searching for a possible escape route, a weapon, a weakness, anything. At least his head had cleared, which meant that some hours had passed and it was morning. He didn't get far with his inventory before he got company.

"Why's he not with the others?"

Fabric rustled and the light changed behind his quickly closed eyelids as three men came in, carrying a sickly sweet stench and faint screaming with them. They moved closer, circling him, looming over him, and one, young voice, started giggling.

"Not so feral now, is he?" Young asked, after a moment of silence when they had probably struggled to read his tattoo and make sense of the brand on his neck.

He remained limp, managed somehow not to flinch as a fish-belly soft hand slapped the side of his face. Stinking breath hit him as its owner spoke: "Got the Burning. Brings even the strong ones to their knees. Happens all the time."

"Who's the Immortan?" Young wanted to know, then burst out laughing.

"No one," Third answered, leather creaking as he shrugged. "So, why's he not with the others?"

"I'm thinking, if he survives the Burning the Lady in her Nest might want him," Fish said. "Look at him. She'll might want to pound his ass. Nice and tight, I reckon."

"Not much meat," Young muttered, sounding forlorn even as he licked his lips with a loud slurping noise. "But I'd like the stringy bits. Like them better than guzzoline."

"That's why I give the orders," Third growled, a warning, but it lacked heat. "Send a rider, offer her the pretty girl for now."

"What about him?"

"We're traders, son. Need to know the goods, don't we?"

xxx

As soon as it started he weighed his options and came up empty, so he followed the voices to that hollow place inside him and curled up. There it was cold and dark and numb, and only the dead could touch him.

His body struggled on autopilot, snarled and tried to bite through the gag, to scratch and kick and punch, but Young and Fish had him quickly restrained. Their weight on him, the only movement came from Third, thrusting dry into his ass after forcing his way past clenched muscles.

When he drifted back to the surface his knees were scraped raw by the sand, but he went under again when Fish and Young took their turns. They didn't hurry.

The fever raged as they dragged him to another tent. The confusion was back, the lack of strength instead of opportunity, and he drifted in and out of consciousness. But he felt the pain, a keen, deep throbbing, and liquid that ran down his legs, leaving milky-red smears on the ground.

They tossed him into a cell, but not before he saw it:

Bodies, trussed up just like him, hanging upside down in a long row, throats slit. Blood ran like a waterfall, caught in buckets that sloshed when little kids moved them. Women with sharpened teeth winked at him in passing, massaging the arms and legs of the cooling corpses, while others pumped the stomachs to keep it flowing.

Further along, more were already beheaded, skinned, gutted, lay quartered on badly dented car doors or roasted over a fire pit, smelling like a Sunday's barbecue.

xxx

The door rattled shut and he rolled away from the tangle of bodies he had almost landed on. A dozen naked men and women huddled in the cell. Some sat motionless, but others were mindless with terror - rocking, crying, wailing.

The sand clung to his sweaty skin, dust settling over him like a heavy blanket. His legs were shaking, full of pins and needles after hours of bad circulation. The rope was gone, replaced with handcuffs, his wrists scraped raw, three fingers purple.

He could see five guards from where he lay, saw them lurch and stumble in-between the women and children on grotesquely swollen legs. Their hands trembled, badly enough that one dropped his crossbow.

Cannibals, he thought, and nodded to himself. Mhm-mh, he remembered, something about a disease they got from gorging themselves on human meat. Had been on the news, Before, a little piece of far away horror to entertain those with a white picket fence life...

He pushed the memory away and closed his eyes, just for a second.

xxx

Max?

Where are you?

Max?

Is that you?

Max... You cannot die here!

xxx

Glory's scream was still ringing in his ears when they dragged him out of the cell and dropped him at Young's feet. She stood beside him, watching, all fiery ringlets and a sweet, razor-edged smile that filled him with terror, flooded his veins with adrenaline.

"You were so good for me," Young muttered. He bent down and pulled the gag out, began fumbling with his trousers. "Ready for another round, Feral-man?"

He could dislocate his thumb, get rid of the cuffs. He could break Young's nose with a headbutt, take care of the other two; he could - Max, she whispered. Her icy breath prickled in his ear and he could see her cherry-red lips parting.

He surged up on his knees with a snarl and ripped Young's throat out, felt the thin skin give as his teeth dug in deep. Veins and muscles tore in a fountain of red as he pulled with a vicious jerk. Salt and copper flooded his mouth, rushed hot over his tongue, down his chin and chest.

Mad Max, she said, her voice so calm, and sad, and fond. Glory vanished, taking him with her, away from the screaming, the fighting, the struggling, the pain.

xxx

The heat was bearing down on him, a smothering weight on his back that made it hard to keep on breathing. His focus had narrowed, shutting out everything except this: inhale, exhale. The sun was burning his life away, one sizzling drop of sweat at a time. He tried and failed to swallow. His tongue was dry, hard and textured.

They had sat in the shade, watching him, a silent wake for Young and the other three he had killed, until their lookout came riding in, shouting a warning. Third gave the order to strike camp, condemned him to a Desert Death with the broad grin of a shark.

Within minutes, they had fled in the opposite direction of a foe they had no intention of facing: a sandstorm. He could hear it now. Its hollow roar was rising, still far enough away that the wind just barely ruffled his hair. It kept the crows at bay that longed to peck at his eyes, to start in on his soft belly and pull out ropes of slick guts.

There was another sound, faint but getting closer. Then footsteps. She was coming for him. Distracted, his focus slipped, and all went white.

xxx

When it came down to it, the decision out of his hands, dying was fine by him. He was always running, searching for something he would never find, giving in to hope against his better judgment like the greatest of fools. But he had always known how his story would end, that it wouldn't be in a blaze of glory.

There were good people still out there, but he was no one's hero, not theirs and least of all his own. He would die alone and be forgotten. Like every other person After, he wouldn't amount to anything.

xxx

He had done it before, lost days and hours and minutes, skipped over them in the blink of an eye, the only constant those he had failed to save. This time was different, though. It was his body shutting down after too much abuse, not his mind. -- And he wasn't alone.

It had been footsteps alright. Someone had found him, naked and dying, and not walked away despite the storm. He had vague recollections of being dragged and carried. Of strong hands and nausea, then a broad back, the scratch of stubble on his cheek. A voice, the smooth rumble of an engine, the vibration rattling his bones.

He drifted after that, flew over the desert at top speed, crashed into a nest of blankets and nightmares, with a figure looming over him, handling him like the helpless man-sized doll he had become.

He knew that sensation, had experienced it once, Before, as a kid. A bad case of the flu, fever running high. Never leaving his side, his mother had nursed him back to health... No, this wasn't that.

She had never set his broken bones or force-fed him medicine that made him throw up. Had never had to wipe clotted blood and semen from his ass either. She had never done that and more, in an endless loop of cold nights and hot burning days, concussion and fever having him rant and rave. -- And he had never decked her good, leaving her cursing as she used her weight and size to restrain him.

xxx

Max.

Max?

There you are.

Wake up, Max. Now, do it  _now_ .

xxx

His knuckles were turning white, nails digging into the wood of the makeshift bed in a desperate effort to stay upright. His heart was pounding too fast, hard enough to make him sway where he sat. He shook his head, tried to clear it, but only succeeded in setting off fireworks so bad he had to crush a groan between his teeth.

"You don't like doing things by halves, do you?"

The Man now leaning against the opposite wall - Where was this? A cave? - asked it mildly, worked his jaw to assess the damage done, then shrugged it off. He was taller by a good couple of inches; older too. His dark brown hair was turning gray, his beard already was. An old scar crossed over the back of his nose, a pale puckered line on tanned skin. One of his green eyes was swollen shut, the lid black with a sheen of purple.

"Not exactly talkative either," the Man concluded with a soft snort. "Careful or I'll have you figured out in no time."

There was something in the set of the Man's shoulders, the way he held himself, that made him wary, made him think ex-military and dangerous. Yes. Except... no. He inhaled carefully, felt the pressure of bandages around his cracked ribs. His mouth was still filled with the aftertaste of stew. He wasn't thirsty. His wounds were tended, fingers splinted, bruises faded to pale shades of yellow.

"Don't try to stand up just yet," the Man said, and left.

xxx

Whenever he thought he had seen it all, done it all, life managed to take him by surprise. Usually, it brought him low, like being caught and used as a Blood Bag or nearly offered for sale as a Sex Slave. More often it reminded him of Before, who he had been, what he had believed in, the oath he had sworn. Law and Order, Serve and Protect. One way or the other, he always ended up trying.

And now... this.

The Man had wasted an awful lot of supplies and water and time on him, had never hit him back, just kept him restrained. Mhm-mh, he remembered the Not Dreams. And the evidence was all there, in the little heaps of trash, the first-aid kit, the fact that he was still alive at all. -- In the way the Man had watched him, unmoving, given him space, talked while clearly not expecting an answer or so much as a 'thank you.'

Maybe all this came at a price, maybe there was something at play here he couldn't read by observation and instinct alone. It should set him more on edge, being at the mercy of a stranger. But he trusted actions, not words or people's good intentions, and the Man's spoke of a debt he had to repay.

He decided to start by not breaking his neck, undoing the Man's hard work. He let go, fell back onto the blankets that smelled of stale sweat and sickness and, faintly underneath that, like the Man who had gone out of his way to save him.

xxx

Sitting propped up in the bed he took the spoon and can-turned-bowl the Man offered him, filled to the brim with steaming broth and chunks of meat. He used part of the blanket to avoid burning his hands on the metal and inhaled deeply. Lizard or snake, maybe.

"I'm John," the Man introduced himself, sitting down cross-legged where he had stood earlier. "What do I call you?"

He froze mid-chew, heard the words spoken echo with Furiosa's voice, felt the War Rig moving. "Does it matter?"

"Never let me name anything... Kid."

The tension of déjà vu left him as he stared at the Man, at the lazy grin that stretched his lips, slow and easy. It lit up his whole face. It wasn't guarded or measured, a threat or fake. It didn't belong, not After. He had no idea how to deal with it.

Finally he grunted and looked away, and they ate their meal in silence until the Man - John - was done and got up, rummaged in one of his bags and tossed him a neatly folded stack of clothes. With the fever gone, he caught it easily. The fabric was well-worn soft and mostly clean. Shoes followed, landed beside him with loud thuds.

"That should fit you."

He nodded with a low hum and managed to get out of the bed, breathless and light-headed, but back on his feet. The pain was... manageable. He slipped into the homespun trousers and shirt, then bent to lace the boots, aware that John was watching, was trying and failing not to.

He understood that kind of solitude, what it could do to a man alone on the road, and didn't mind the appreciative looks. At least that kind of interest was honest, came with asking and a choice.

"They took your ride?"

He almost said yes, but drew a blank when he tried to remember what had happened directly after the crash. "Been too long."

"Only one way to find out," John said with a shrug. "That is, if you're feeling up to it?"

xxx

He spent the next three hours folded up and squeezed tight between trading goods in a heavily modded VW Beetle, one with a military, desert-camouflage paint job. Parked in the foothills of the mountain range that hid John's cave, the car seemed to vanish, melt with the sand and rock.

"Let's see what we got."

He watched as John climbed up on the Beetle's roof and from there onto a boulder. He lay down flat, careful to shield the glass of his binoculars from the sun before sweeping the area up ahead.

"Anything?"

"Scavengers," John answered after a moment. He didn't bother climbing back down, simply rolled over the edge and landed in a low crouch that absorbed the impact. "Three and their ride. Crossbows. No guns."

They had stopped for it, which meant that they considered the wreckage worth their time, good enough for stripping, perhaps even salvageable. He swallowed dry, struggling with himself, the part that screamed 'Mine!' and refused to let go, despite all he did to avoid attachment.

"One way or  the other, you'll be needing a ride." Another grin spread slowly over John's face as he added, "Better theirs than mine."

He felt vaguely offended at first but then caught on to the fact that it was meant as a joke, a distraction to pull him out of his own head. It made him uncomfortable, made him wonder what John's story was, and then he shook himself because he couldn't afford to care.

"You sure?"

John offered him one of his three knives, the slightly curved one that was used to field dress larger game. He took the sheath and their fingers brushed, warm skin and calluses. He tested the balance, weighted the weapon in his uninjured hand, then nodded and slipped it into his boot. He hadn't gone three limping steps before a firm hand settled on his shoulder, holding him back. He turned to John, raised an eyebrow.

"You stay here."

"It's my car," he said, stressing the words with too much meaning, voice flat and temper flaring.

"I know, Kid. But you're already dead on your feet."

There wasn't much point in denying the obvious. He knew his fatigue was evident in the way he moved, too slow, gait uneven and off-kilter. The ride had been a bumpy one, a literal pain in both his ass and ribs, to say nothing of the weight and muscle mass he had lost.

"Can't fight them alone."

"Fight them?" John repeated, then snorted as if he found the very idea funny. "Kid, I'm gonna take them out."

xxx

It had sounded like a boast, the kind young men with more confidence than brains would exchange Before, all bluster and swear words, gunning for a fight to prove how macho they were, all the while counting on their friends to step in before things got ugly. -- A status ritual, the famous 'Monkey Dance.'

Wouldn't have been the first time he met someone cocksure like that, watched them rush in and die because there was no stopping or reasoning with them, for all that they had seemed level-headed.

Instead John proved to be as good as his word. He witnessed through the binoculars how it all went down, quick and efficient and near silent, not the usual fare of Wasteland brutality, the work of a professional:

John moved slowly at first, closing the distance between him and the three Scavengers by using what sparse cover large rocks and shrubs provided. His clothes were one color, a fading ocher, that worked as camouflage not unlike the paint job of his car.

One of the Scavengers was acting as perimeter guard, moving around the wreckage in a slow circle, while the others were distracted, busy shoveling sand away from their find, raising a dust cloud that reduced visibility as it billowed with the wind.

It happened fast, one second John had crawled behind Guard, was prone on the ground, the next he stood, had him in a secure choke hold. Guard had no chance to shout a warning before his throat was slit. John lowered the body slowly to the ground, then moved to the next man, killed him while the other was trying to wriggle inside the overturned Interceptor, his legs sticking out of the window. Him John pulled out by his feet...

... and he couldn't see what exactly happened, the reflection of metal too bright in the sun, but then he heard a whistle, calling him over, and knew it was done.

xxx

He ran his hand over the curve of the steering wheel, felt the familiar patchwork of leather straps against his palm as his fingers closed around it. He shifted in the seat and two springs poked him, dug into his back, below his left shoulder blade.

The crash hadn't been as bad as the fever had led him to believe. The Interceptor was banged up and required repairs but thanks to the Scavengers he had all the spare parts he would need, plus guzzoline, weapons and bare-bones equipment.

He inhaled deeply, ignored the sharp tang of melted plastic and singed leather, and allowed himself to relax. This was home, or close enough.

"Good to be home?" John asked, echoing his thought, a darker shadow that moved past the window, carrying the tools he had gone to retrieve from the Beetle's trunk.

He kept his eyes closed and made no effort to hide the smile that tugged at his lips. "Yeah."

"Give me a second to fix the winch and I'll tow you back to the cave."

"Mhm-mh."

"Don't fall asleep, Kid."

"Name's Max," he muttered, and did just that.

xxx

The repairs took three days.

They didn't talk much, but he learned that the cave was part of a waypoint network that John and his fellow Merchant Guild members had set up. A trading hub called "The Burrows" lay a week's drive to the north, run by 'a friend.'

By the second day he knew how John set up his traps to catch snakes and lizards and a dozen different insects and worms that didn't look edible but were, as John proved by shoveling them into his mouth by the handful.

He also learned that John had an oral fixation that carried over from having been a chain smoker Before, always chewing on an old pencil or having a piece of dried meat stuck in the corner of his mouth, between his chapped lips.

Turned out it was even time enough to get used to falling asleep to the soft noise of John's snoring in his ear -- and to come up with a way to repay his debt.

xxx

In the Wasteland sex was just another currency. The last resort of those running on empty, the young, the weak, those with half a life. For Drifters and Road Warriors too, if they lacked other skills to trade.

After all, survival left no room for false pride.

xxx

John's hand squeezed the back of his neck, fingers and blunt nails digging into tense muscles and tendons. It was meant as a warning, but the touch lingered, was far too gentle. "Get going, Kid. You owe me nothing."

He swallowed, mouth gone dry. He had made his move, had offered, and been rejected. He should have felt relief. Instead it stung, tasted bitter, because he  _ wanted _ .

The realization took him by surprise, crushed his sudden need to push until he got his way, left him feeling raw and confused and glad that John had let him off the hook. Change was dangerous, but he knew how to run without looking back.

"That's not how it works," he said, Wasteland truth, common sense and token protest. He was already moving towards the Interceptor, reaching for its familiarity.

"In my little corner of the world, it does," John said it with a shrug, not quite resigned, then added, "You ever need help, go to the Burrows. Good luck, Max."

xxx

Max.

You're so stupid, Max.

I told you before, didn't I?

_Stop running!_

xxx

Life went on, the way he was used to, the way he had chosen... ever since. Except something had changed in that hollow place inside him, made him see an opportunity to... do what, exactly?

He looked at his hard-won prize, clutched too tightly in his bloodied fist. The crumpled pack of cigarettes was dirty, logo faded to smudged colors and shades of gray, half its contents reduced to brown crumbs and bits of paper.

He walked towards the Interceptor, stepped over a corpse that wore the arrow-through-a-heart brand of the Lady in her Nest. He fanged it, not surprised that Glory was, as always, far ahead of him.

The soles of her naked feet turned the endless stretch of desert into a northbound road. She laughed and skipped over the sand, light as a feather, a young girl with bouncing, flame-red curls, his own personal beacon.

He only had to take a chance and follow.

The End


End file.
